


More ponderous than nimble

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: F/M, Games, Late at Night, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: The hour was late, the storm was brewing, an unexpected harbor beckoned.





	More ponderous than nimble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/gifts), [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts).
  * Inspired by [yet apt the verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559687) by [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



Henry Hopkins stepped outside and held the door for Emma Green. The night welcomed them, heavy and humid, an earlier downpour leaving behind only dampness and air almost too thick to breathe. No stars were to be seen and the dark clouds above promised that the calm would only be temporary.

Immediately, Henry grew uncomfortable. Always more at ease in the New England winter than summer, his high collar and thick woolen jacket made the Virginian one downright intolerable. The presence of the young woman he was to accompany did nothing to help.

She seemed lost in thought as she descended the stairs, mechanically fastening the buttons on her glove, her capped bonnet failing to hide her furrowed brow, her bitten lower lip. An expression she had often taken, these days, as she dressed wounds, or paused her reading when the soldier she was attending had finally fallen asleep. One that had barely left her face tonight despite Foster’s lively challenges and Nurse Mary’s quiet reassurance. One that darkened even more when she reached the street, or whatever was left of it: most was covered in thick mud and puddles, leaving only a thin strip of dry ground on the sidewalk to line the way towards her home.

“It looks like a battlefield,” she muttered. “I hadn’t even noticed it was raining so.”

“Time flies when you’re in good company,” he replied jovially, to hide his discomfort. “May I offer you my arm? I would be a poor escort indeed if I returned you to your parents with your dress covered in mud.”

“It would be no worse than all those I’ve ruined with blood and dirt in the hospital, but yes, thank you.” Promptly, he shifted the umbrella to his other elbow and she slid her arm through his, her gloved hand resting lightly on his forearm and doing nothing to relieve the unbearable warmth that swathed him.

They started walking carefully, dodging the puddles glistening under the lamplight in the battered streets. It was quiet, too quiet: no crickets singing, no dogs barking, no soldier crying for help, for comfort. After the tumult of the hospital wards, the stimulating debate of the late evening with their colleagues, it was quite unsettling to be in so noiseless a place. It made every step on cobblestone, every shuffle of fabric, resonate loudly against the brick walls that surrounded them. It made every breath of hers feel as if sighed directly into his ear.

Out of the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at his companion. Intently watching the road, she held her dress up, her brow once again knitted in concentration, and doubt, and worry. In the quiet night, he could almost hear the gears of her brain spinning, trying to solve the puzzle that left her so confused.

He could not help but wonder: what could be troubling her so? The senseless death of Tom Fairfax, still so fresh and cruelly felt in their lives? Her father’s imprisonment, for daring to bury the lost boy with his family? Conflict, discord with hers? Fear for her fighting beau? Doubt as to her chosen path?

“It’s quite rude to stare, Chaplain.”

Henry started; she had not even turned her head, but now shot him a sideway glance. He fumbled for excuses, but cut himself short: there was no pretending otherwise. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You seem… troubled tonight.”

 “More so than usual?” she sighed, herself not bothering to deny it.

He could only shrug and offer a tentative smile. “For all my insolent staring, I would not presume on knowing your usual level of trouble, Miss Green.”

She waited for him to continue: when he did not, her expression shifted. “Are you not going to ask why?” she asked wearily, as if expecting a lecture. “Offer me counsel?”

He would have, but the more he looked at her, the less he realized he should. What would she admit to him, should he manage to ask? They were barely more than acquaintances. He could claim no mentorship to her, as Nurse Mary might, nor similar society, as she shared with Jedidiah Foster. Even Matron Brannan, who seemed to have seen and heard it all before, would prove a better source of pragmatic wisdom than him.

What would she confide to a modest Yankee man, with no common background, age, gender nor Cause? One who hid his fascination with her under Bible verses and psalms? One who, despite it all, had been unduly harsh with her, just a few days passed, over Tom’s end?

Even as chaplain, what counsel could he offer, aside from exhortation to prayer and trust and faith in God? When had those ever soothed the heart of the young, as they watched the future loom, their assurance dwindle, their innocence fade? When they barely soothed his own as he wrestled with his own helplessness, his anger at the boy’s fate, his attraction to the girl before him?

What had he to offer this confused young lady in this hour of night, aside from his quiet support, quieter admiration, and a steady arm along the road? A road that, as they turned the corner, had all but disappeared, leaving only a few islands of dry land over a sea of water, appearing like stepping stones across as stream.

That image, once planted into his unsettled mind, sprouted roots and grew. The need to see her smile, to forget her troubles if only for a moment, and to let her hold on to the youth that was slowly stolen from her every day of this war, blossomed. To briefly relive the one he had himself cast aside, so long ago, to atone for a tragic fit of anger, bloomed.

He may not have answers or counsel, but he could provide respite.

“No,” he answered simply, stopping in his path. “I believe some of our mutual acquaintances would be much more apt to help guide you with whatever troubles you so. The only guidance I can offer you tonight is to navigate across this river of ours.”

Before she could ask him his meaning, he winked and jumped across the water, landing effortlessly on a dry portion a few feet away. It was her turn to stare, taken aback back by the quiet chaplain’s sudden burst of playfulness. He held out his hand to her. “Come,” he encouraged her as she hesitated. “Did you not play hopscotch as a child?”

“Yes, but my dresses were much shorter back then,” she retorted. “And I didn’t much care if I should happen to fall.”

“You shan’t fall. Trust me.”

Gingerly, she placed her hand in his, gathered her skirts tighter, and skipped, easily clearing the water. “See?” he cheered. “There’s nothing to it. Let’s do the next one.”

One corner of her lips tilted upwards, and she nodded. Henry jumped first and she followed suit, landing next to him. They eyed the street, locating different possible paths. “The larger island there, or the closer small one?” he asked.

“The larger one,” she chose, and he hopped to it. With a step back for added impulsion, she leapt, and would have overshot her landing if he had not reached out his arm for her to grab onto and maintain her balance. “All right?” he asked, but her answer was easy to gauge from her relaxed brow, the light in her eye, the slight flush of her cheeks. She steadied herself, gave a quick nod, and turned to skip across the next puddle, landing as gracefully as a dancer on a stage.

It was Henry’s turn to smile. “First one to Cameron Street?”

And so the game became a race, side-stepping here, skipping there; and when the islands shrank even more and the distance between them grew, the race became a dance. Hands were held across the water, guiding, holding, supporting. Arms were held over land, restraining, stabilizing, reassuring. A few times they stumbled, but always they held on, saving each other from a sure fall.

Like this they made their way until the final obstacle, where the distance between their isle and the sidewalk was larger for either of them to clear.

“Our luck seems to have run out,” Henry contemplated, and he untied the buttons on his coat. “It appears I must sacrifice myself.”

Emma stopped him with a hand to his arm, the gesture so natural now to her that he found it completely disarming. “There’s no need for such gallantry,” she chided him. “Your coat is much more valuable than this old dress of mine. And my shoes can surely survive a bit of wet. We fought valiantly to stay afloat until the very end, but as on the _Varuna_ , we must now bravely go down with the ship,” she added in mock solemnity.

He marveled at her: this perfect picture of youth, loose strands of hair escaped from her bonnet now framing her rosy face glowing in the darkness, and speaking playfully yet with reason and utter disregard for material things she had cherished not long ago. Young, yes, but no longer childish, yet young enough to remind him of brighter days, when simple amusements could light up the darkest of hours.

Another idea crossed his mind, even bolder than skipping stones, boldest still coming from him; but her newfound cheer encouraged him to believe it might just be bold enough.

“Maybe there is a way to save your shoes and my coat.”

At her quizzical expression, he stepped into the water, halfway to the other side, and extended both his arms to her. “Just like getting off a cart,” he reassured her. “I will carry you across, if you will allow me.”

There was no hesitation this time. She propelled herself forward and, with one fluid movement, he caught and lifted her, his hands strong at her waist, hers light upon his shoulders, and spun her unto dry ground. When he set her down, a breathless laugh escaped her parted lips, forming the most glorious smile she had ever granted him, and he could not bring himself to release his hold on her. Neither did she move to do so, her hands merely dropping to his chest, fingering the soft wool of his jacket. For an instant, they only stared at each other, stars sparkling more brightly in their eyes than in the overcast sky.

A drop fell on her cheek, followed by another. _Tears?_ he thought alarmingly, before others hit his own face, and a dozen more struck his hat. Out of the darkness, the rain suddenly started again, bombarding them angrily for trespassing in this night of hers, until he finally managed to open his umbrella and cover them both.

Emma slid under his arm and pressed herself against him, under the small protection of the umbrella, the greater comfort of his embrace. Huddled so, they crossed the little distance remaining to her house, no longer caring where they stepped, until they were finally covered by the porch, the rain drumming loudly against it. Slowly, almost regretfully, Henry dropped the umbrella and Emma pulled away, drawing herself back up. At once, the space between them was huge, and Henry almost felt cold.

“Thank you for a lovely dance,” he bowed, trying to hide his disappointment at their parting with jest.

“A shame to stop now that we have music,” she replied in amusement with a curtsy of her own, until she froze, and her face slowly fell. “A dance… I had promised you one, at my mother’s ball,” she recalled, sadly. “I never honored it.”

“I’m sure you had your pick of more apt partners,” he shrugged good-naturedly, not letting the old wound resurface and spoil their moment.

Emma shook her head, looking at him with an intensity he had never seen before. “Will you stop saying that?” she cried. “There is no one-“

She was interrupted by the front door creaking open, revealing an anxious Belinda. “Miss Emma! What a time to be gettin’ home! And in this wretched weather! You come on in right away!”

She reached out to grasp Emma’s elbow and turned to Henry. “Chaplain Hopkins, most kind of you to have seen her home safely. You have a good night now, Sir.”

There was nothing to be replied, the warning on her stern face made quite clear. Henry could only tip his hat. “Of course. It was my pleasure. Good night, Ms. Gibson. Miss Green, until tomorrow.”

“Good night, Chaplain. And thank you again,” she added quickly, before Belinda could completely draw her in and close the door. “For being the most apt of escorts.”

Henry stared at the door for an instant, a wondrous smile slowly spreading across his face. With a turn of his heels, a spring in his step, he returned to Mansion House, his heart lighter than his feet across the water.

**Author's Note:**

> This goes out to tortoiseshells for the initial inspiration (hope the finals are going well!), and to Fericita for officially joining AO3 and being so patient with her unfulfilled Emmry story requests. 
> 
> My first idea for the Emmry midnight walk home was for them to have a good heart-to-heart, but then that seemed too similar to my Confederate AU late night porch talk. So then, believe it or not, the first draft of this story that I wrote while on vacation involved them…. dancing in the street. Like, quickstepping across puddles in a Singing in the Rain-ish sequence. But when I came back and saw the prompt for the Phoster clandestine waltz story in Confederate AU…. well, I couldn’t resist and flat-out sold out my own theme to my favorite couple. 
> 
> I then had to tweak this story back to make it different enough and not just yet another variation on ‘ships dancing in the night. And it’s been a massive headache. So I hope this still delivers somewhat.
> 
> Emma will have her heart-to-heart, but with somebody else. Stay tuned (unless another prompt eats up that idea as well - always possible)!
> 
> In keeping with the original, title from Melville’s "A Utilitarian View of the Monitor's Fight".


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